


words unsaid aren't emotions unfelt

by nimrodcracker



Series: and still I haul my heavy feet [1]
Category: Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords
Genre: Angst with a capital A, Friends to Enemies, Gen, Lies & Manipulation, Mandalorian Wars, Pre-Canon, because war isn't pretty and it ruins everything, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-11 09:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8973739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimrodcracker/pseuds/nimrodcracker
Summary: "We do terrible things for the people we love. Stop asking why. Start asking who." - Beth Childs, Orphan Black. Revan & the Exile: from friends to enemies, over the course of the Mandalorian Wars.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Remember that KOTOR-verse project I mentioned months ago? it's this. Could've gotten this up earlier, but school has been wild - and by wild i mean frickin' unforgiving.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the way things have been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it isn't clear, my Revan goes by Lennox, and my Exile, Venetia.

>  "If you disagree with my methods, why aren't you by the Council's side wringing your fists? Berating me. Demonising me. For spitting on what the Order stands for?" 
> 
> "'Cause of you. I know you're not what the Council thinks you are. If this- this martyr act of yours is your farewell gift to the galaxy, it's not happening. I won't let you." 
> 
> "Ven, y- you don't know what you're involving yourself in. Take that back." 
> 
> "No. You're family, and I protect my own."

* * *

Lennox isn't surprised when the door bangs open and she storms in. 

"Ah, Ven." Lennox tries to smile, but it's been an effort these days. "If you're thirsty, I have some hot choc-"

Venetia slams a bundle of cloth on the war table and ID cards spill out, knocking over the datapads and blaster packs stacked on it. Lennox picks one card up, and the carbon coating it stains their fingers. 

They're all charred.

"Explain." Venetia's growl is coarse, chipped with fatigue - she's been awake till now. So has Lennox. 

Lennox rubs a thumb over the Mandalorian etching. The decision hadn't been difficult. "It was for the best."

Venetia's expression is inscrutable but clearly, Venetia doesn't believe that. Lennox sees the tic in her jaw, just once; a siren for the storm to come. 

Lennox squares their shoulders. 

All it takes is a split-second of contemplation before Venetia dismisses the sentries; without breaking eye-contact, without omitting the tempered steel in her voice. 

The guards file out without a word. 

Venetia waits three seconds after the door lock clicks into place. "Kawashi reports a power outage in the containment cells an hour ago. Also, the subsequent detonation of the minefield near the emergency tunnels."

"Oh, you know," Lennox hurriedly answers. "These things happen. The Republic isn't exactly brimming with resources to keep us running well these days, aren't they? Probably tripped by a cannock, and if so, good riddance."

Lennox doesn't need to tap on the Force to sense Venetia's agitation. She's already shaking her head, her regal features twisted. 

"Just ... tell me one thing, Len. Only Command knows about that exit." Venetia gestures with a finger. "You. Me. Genis and Qoz."

Past Venetia and on the wall of the building is the digital clock display, blinking bloody crimson, blinking bright against the blackness of the room. 02:47, it shows.

The minefield detonated at 02:10.

"I unlocked their cell door and I told them to escape. A bit of Force persuasion, and they concluded I was a Mandalorian sympathiser." Lennox tilts their head, recalling the confusion the Mandalorians had exuded. Then, the resolve. "They believed me."

The tic in Venetia's jaw returns, twitching along to the seconds that hang heavily between them. It's nervous habit of hers, appearing regardless of Lennox fibbing about their actions. Only this time, Venetia's waiting for an answer Lennox isn't about to give.

"Oh?" Venetia says with an arch of her brow. Her fingers drum the surface of the table. "No arguments? No justifications? Nothing about how you had  _no choice?_ "

"I did what I did, Ven." Lennox hopes the regret is tangible in their voice; audible if not. They're already seen as heartless; especially by her. "You've read Heinck's reports on our supplies. We either feed our soldiers, or waste it on Mandalorian prisoners."

Lennox catches her gaze again and Venetia offers nothing. Just the unflinching scrutiny of bark-brown eyes, hands crossed over her Echani vest armour like a shield. 

Protection from  _them_ , Lennox realises with a pang, and that triggers them to continue. "As far as the sentries who found them - or, what's  _left_  of them - know, they died while trying to flee. And unknowingly ran across our minefield. They'll dismiss it as another failed prison break. Something any soldier is honour-bound to attempt."

Lennox's heart thuds in their chest; they tells themselves it's not because they're nervous about what Venetia thinks of them. As Generals, they're far more professional than that.

Venetia doesn't say a word. Neither does she look at Lennox. There's a chill in the room, and it can't just be because of the thunderstorm that rages outside. Lennox wants it to be the weight of Venetia's censure, because if it's what Lennox thinks it is, something ... sinister, they- it's something Lennox  _refuses_  to dwell on.

So neither of them speak for a while. And even if Lennox has troop movements to review and condolence letters to compose, Lennox stays as they are, leaning forward with palms pressed flat against the tabletop - a figure of steely calm juxtaposed against their fellow General, who's grinding her teeth like whetting a  _beskad_ , honing them to a level of sharpness known only to her.

It's selfish of Lennox to steal fleeting moments like this; to stretch out this moment even if it's more antipathy than amity. This is the first of her Lennox has seen in weeks ... and it can even be the last. 

Is this desire to see her really selfish, then?

"You could've said  _something_."

"I could've." Lennox shrugs. "But I didn't."

Venetia stiffens. There's a new scar on her face, hairline thin, slicing down her lips and under her chin. In the half-light, both are hard to discern on her russet-brown skin, but Lennox does. 

 _Shrapnel or a rogue blade to the face? Does it still hurt?_  threatens to spill from Lennox's lips, but Lennox knows better than to smother Venetia with concern. Venetia despises them, and it's not out of bravado or a misguided sense of pride. So Lennox drops their gaze back to the pile of charred ID's, knowing that looking any longer is tantamount to staring. They don't stop worrying, though. 

Lennox is intrigued when Venetia slides a box across the table to them, cutting a swathe through the pile of charred ID's. 

"I remember," Venetia explains, as if two words are enough - but it is, as Lennox watches her exit the room. Where her words are silent, her body isn't; and her agonisingly slow steps scream  _talk to me_  far louder than she ever will. 

Then, hand hovering over the door's control panel, Venetia stills. 

"You're the Revanchist, but so are we. This isn't just your burden."

Her voice barely carries over, even when empty silence separates them because it's a void, Lennox thinks. A ravenous void that sucks the something from everything to leave nothing; a void of Lennox's own creation. 

Lennox doesn't acknowledge her words. Soon enough, the room's occupied by only one person.

Using the Force, Lennox probes their surroundings, all while turning the box over in their hands,  _just_  to be sure that they're completely alone. Sensing no one else and nothing but bitter melancholy, Lennox opens the fist-sized box with care.

Lennox's throat swells with constricting emotion; expecting nothing, Lennox finds everything. 

Inside it lies two holodiscs; one marked with A and another with a V. The result of a promise made when the three of them were too young to know better. 

And now, that feels more a parting gift than anything.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the calm before the storm.

"You're thinking about her again, aren't you."

"Aha. Seems like I can't keep secrets from you, can I?"

"You don't get to do this with me, Len. Not now."

"Yes, Squint. I am. Don't you do this too? Worry about her from time to time?" 

"Not as much as you. Look. You- no,  _we_  tried convincing her, and she didn't budge. She chose her path. We chose ours."

"I'm not accepting that."

"Then you'll suffer for it. There's only so much I can do for you too. She'll never think of you that way. You know that." 

" _Please_ , it isn't that. She's here because of me. Just like how you are."

"Why is that a problem? We're doing the right thing, just like you said.  _She_  isn't. That's why  _she's_  the problem."

===

Today marks the fifth month of their stay on this forsaken jungle moon, yet Lennox hasn't acclimatised to the stench. The dampness of flora commingle with the wet stench of... _things_ , and it's like they're perennially quashing their gag reflex. Present time included.

But even that doesn't stop Lennox from sensing her long before she arrives; not via the Force but through the light tread of her footsteps. Ones that don't crunch the grass under her boots, nor shake the ground she walks, even though the Mandalorians liken her to a thunderstorm. 

Venetia pokes her head through the tent flap. "What?"

Lennox beckons her over to the holographic map. "Orders." 

They've fallen so low, Lennox ruefully notes, when animosity is more common a greeting for long-lost friends than joy. All that flits through Lennox's mind as Venetia approaches the map at the centre of the tent.

The both of them don't delay; they're commanders long enough to update each other on battlefield intel with ease, pointing out supply chain inefficiencies and morale levels and Mandalorian troop movements on the projection. And in no time at all, they're bogged down by tactical decisions that must be made soon enough. In Venetia's words - uttered when she could still bear to be around Lennox -  _they're playing pazaak with lives as credits_.

It doesn't help that Lennox is treading on eggshells around Venetia these days, and maybe, having a skirt as part of their battle gear was wrecking with their sense of balance. But Lennox adores it too much to switch to pants.

"Len, I'm not stupid. Why call me here instead of over holocomm? The troops need me at the Echo Three." 

"Do they?" Lennox puts on their best goody-two-shoes grin, the kind that charms the leggings off sentient beings. "Stoyve has a good head on her shoulders. Your troops will be fine." 

Venetia's leggings stay firmly on, and so does her nonplussed expression. "Sure."

"Okay, fine. I figured you required a break before the big push and all that."

Incredulous is how Lennox will describe Venetia's expression, and she scoffs, bunching her hands into fists. "For kark's sake, I can relax on the troopship. Sto-"

" _Ven,_ " Lennox interjects, grabbing her sleeved bicep. Venetia glares back with flared nostrils, and Lennox lets go. "Your troops can take care of each other. But not you. Chain of command is iffy that way."

" _Stop it._  I'm fine." Venetia rubs her eyes with her knuckles - and Lennox knows it's to shield her dark circles and ashen complexion from view. "I'm still here, right?"

"Is that what you want?" 

"What  _I_  want doesn't matter." Venetia bites out, before marching towards him. "We have a  _war_  on. Echo Three's field infirmary needs to be reinforced with a defense perimeter. Which Stoyve wants my opinion on before she works out the details with the non-coms and I can't do that  _without_  walking the defense line."

For someone who's shorter than them, Venetia's a few steps too many into Lennox's personal space, breathing down their neck with the ferocity of a boma beast - and that puts Lennox on edge.

So Lennox steps closer; hands on their hips. "It matters to me."

Venetia flinches at that. It's suppressed under mountains of self-control, but Lennox knows her well enough to notice the tell-tale catch of her breath.

Lennox's gaze flickers briefly to her lips; a motion Venetia notices with the same vexed look. That's why Venetia backtracks hastily, moving to stand nearer to the tent entrance, as if Lennox's gaze is the spark and herself the tinder for any fire - and with their emotions whizzing about like laser bolts, they're a stray shot away from being seared.

Lennox doesn't blame her for putting distance between them. Just themselves, for having to do this; this messing around with her head.  _For the greater good._

"Of course you do. We grew up together." Venetia's back faces Lennox as she peers at something outside that Lennox can't see. Her words are soft, and they become softer still. "Wouldn't expect anything less."

Kind words they are, words that are supposed to wrap Lennox's hollow heart in the warm comfort of camaraderie. And that's the thing - it doesn't. So Lennox smothers such pining thoughts until their breath stills with nary a sound. There's only one way this'll end, and there's no reason to twist the vibroshiv in their heart further.

"Thank  _you_  for the validation." Lennox reaches for the cup of hot chocolate under the table and walks up to her, offering the cup. Venetia accepts it with a strained smile. "Of course, being the person with an incomparable level of self-regard, I didn't exactly require your praise to perk my mood."

That Venetia doesn't pick on the scent of molten chocolate unsettles Lennox. 

"Mandalore's  _hairy_  ass," Venetia curses between sips, and laughter bubbles from both their throats. 

And just like that, the tension seeps out of both their bones, as if they were sensations that never belonged. 

They never did.

"Okay," Lennox admits. "Yours especially. Alek too. Everyone else can eat poodoo."

"Because we're friends, right?  _Best_  friends."

_Not family?_

"Comrades has a better ring to it, but that works too," Lennox replies. Venetia's snub hurts far more than it should. 

They share a quiet glance, and it's suddenly easier for Lennox to smile. 

For the first time in weeks, they're not Generals anymore; not sentients tasked with impossible goals and improbable odds. Instead, they're acolytes again, wondering if dinner is the same bland stew of boiled fish, wondering if today is the day Master Vrook decides to embrace levity.

If Alek hadn't been assigned to a Republic task force in another system, this moment would've been perfect. The three of them, reunited - however briefly. 

"I'll stay." Venetia tips her empty cup with some finality. "For now. I'll leave for Echo Three at first light tomorrow." 

"Good." Lennox signals her out of the tent and leads them to the mess tent. Troops salute smartly at them as they pass, and they respond with firm nods. "Because tonight's dinner special is bantha stew and I'm certain you wouldn't want to miss it. For anything."

"I would for my troops, but since you're asking..." The waft of nerf hits them both full-on; Venetia takes in the smell with closed eyes and a deep breath. 

Seeing her in this state of bliss, framed against the glow of the setting sun, eases the guilt of dragging her back from the front lines, because all that matters to Lennox is that Venetia deserves nothing but the best. This, Lennox doesn't need to fake, but Lennox reflexively checks that their barriers are up, because Venetia  _must not_  sense their sorrow. She  _cannot._

Venetia bumps shoulders with Lennox to catch their attention. "Just for you."

"My favourite words," Lennox grins, while waving her into the mess tent. 

 _What if she already does?_  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> non-coms = non-commissioned officers. If military lore & ranks in the next few chapters contradict canon, it's deliberate. I tried sticking to it as best I could, but sometimes the star wars wiki is a Mess.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> creative liberty taken with medical personnel markings. apparently, it differs according to faction & era.

"We need to talk about General Olic."

"It isn't Ven anymore? Or even Venetia? Weren't you friends?"

" _Len._ "

"Yes, I know she's a threat so it's time we neutralised her before she interferes with our plans. I'm doing something, honest!"

"Not from where I am, no."

"Alek, we're best friends. The very best. I have this under control. Trust me."

"She's been noticing things. Asking questions. Half of Command knows about it, and now they're asking too."

"Let them. I've heard officer scuttlebutt. To them, her 'theories' are wild speculation. They still trust me."

===

There's so much blood on her hands; sticky, stubborn liquid that coats her fingers like a second skin that she can't rip off like a grimy glove.

"Ma'am, it hurts."

Venetia looks up with a sheepish smile. "Sorry about that," she says to the trooper lying on the cot, before loosening the knot she's working on.

Her hands are clean. The ridges in her skin are caked with dirt, but other than that, there isn't a single smear of crimson.

A few more knots and the splint is secured tightly to the trooper's leg; the calf fracture sufficiently immobilised with bandages and a splint. Echo Three's chief medical officer would've been proud of her handiwork... if they still lived. The bucket heads were smart enough to take down the Lieutenant with a sniper shot two weeks ago in one of the Republic's frontline camps; specifically, the one overflowing with wounded.

Lieutenant Vex isn't the first, nor the last medic to be systematically hunted down and killed that way. The Mandies made sure of that.

The trooper offers little more than a weak smile in thanks, eyes fluttering closed with fatigue, so Venetia stands to leave. Her heart clenches when she sweeps her gaze across the interior of the field hospital; seeing so few medics scurry about between cots to attend to so many more patients.

That's why she's here with a red medic's sash tied around her bicep, flitting from cot to cot to help out wherever she can. Just not with Force healing, because one, she's better at swinging sabers, and two, she can't seem to summon it to fuel her attempts these years - with sufficient reason. Happiness and serenity aren't common wartime moods, or she's been having trouble connecting with the light side of the Force. Whatever that's supposed to mean.

Still, her troops think she's here because that's what Jedi do; their compassion and altruism driving them to a life of service.

They aren't wrong. They're just unaware of the guilt that drags her down like ill-fitting armour; the constant, chafing _guilt_.

"General?"

 _Not again._ This isn't the first time she's been caught unawares these few months; her sleepless nights have begun to demand their dues. Doesn't matter if they are, she thinks... if only her fatigue's gone unnoticed to her subordinates.

"You weren't at the mess for breakfast," Venetia tells the newcomer over her shoulder, a severe-faced woman favouring her right leg.

It's Stoyve; her trusted second-in-command and a dearest comrade. Deaths and decisions in this hell-hole had brought them closer, and the former's a fate Venetia wouldn't wish on anyone. Even if they've only met five months before, it feels as if they've been comrades since forever.

Obviously nothing good will come of this -  _it's as if soldiers don't get attached for a reason -_  but how else does a general earn the loyalty of their troops?

They drift to the walls to move out of earshot, with Stoyve leading the way. "Oh, the usual. I was walking the tents, checking on morale. Specifically, those who reported-in yesterday. They're-" Stoyve's gaze darts towards a wounded trooper on a nearby cot, and she swallows. "Surviving."

_I was assessing our losses from the recent skirmish. We've lost too many troops again._

Venetia sighs, newfound energy vanishing in a blink. She's their commanding officer, the only Jedi with that position in this sector. Those deaths are on _her_ hands; even if Colonel Bakuna insists - and always has - that orders are a collective decision. She hopes the Twi'lek is still alive, still in command of the rest of the 5th Republic Corps kilometres away from another forward position because they can't afford another officer that's KIA; the Republic's losing such ranks far quicker than the Academy can replace them.

"General, Command replied," Stoyve reports in a voice suddenly too loud for Venetia's ears. The Captain holds out a datapad which Venetia gingerly accepts, wary of what she'll read. "Shall we take this to your tent?"

There's only a single line on the datapad's screen.

Even before Stoyve came by, Venetia's stomach had already been mysteriously queasy - and now, it makes perfect sense. _This_ is why she's leading her subordinate to a quieter area of the field hospital, to a makeshift storage room where the medics stash their supplies on open racks. Away from the accusing faces, away from the troops who've escaped death today, only to charge into its jaws on another.

_The stronghold must fall._

"Did they bother reading our sitrep?" Venetia hisses, even before Stoyve locks the door behind them. "Low on troops and supplies, yet they're asking us to stick to orders? Not even with the courtesy of added reinforcements?"

"It's as I feared, General." Stoyve limps toward the frowning Jedi, her brows pinched in obvious discomfort. Despite the pain, she's refused crutches - and it's been _weeks_ since that incident. "Command has determined our work for us."

Venetia tries and fails to even her breathing; struggling to contain the mess of emotions squirming under her skin. Stoyve looks at her with tired eyes and a stiff upper lip, and Venetia will be lying to herself if that isn't the look of someone who's well aware that they've been thrown under an airspeeder.

Yet, Stoyve doesn't voice the misgivings that float on the surface of her mind. Stoyve doesn't question the orders they've been handed, just like a loyal officer of the Republic.

How many more need to die before this War can _finally_ end?

" _No._ " Venetia flips the datapad in her grasp and furiously types away. "Not if I have anything to say aboùut it."

There's one person who can reverse this mess, or at least offer them a better hand than what they've been dealt. Venetia may not trust them anymore as a sibling, as _family_ \- with who they've become, and the things they've allowed to happen - but Venetia can certainly trust them as a comrade facing similar foes.

For the troops, Venetia _must_.

"I hope so too, General," Stoyve mumbles, the wistfulness of it making Venetia's chest twinge. It's not long before Stoyve steadies herself against a metal rack, its surface bearing the marks of rough transportation and years of service.

Venetia hopes Stoyve's requisitioned leg brace will arrive soon. "So Command thinks we have droids instead of flesh-n-blood troops, eh? Or they're asking for a miracle. But the Force can't create miracles. Me being a Jedi doesn't make me invulnerable."

"Not to the troops. Not with the title the Mandies bestowed on you."

" _Darasuum orar_ ," Venetia spits, the words thick on her tongue. Even now, hearing them twists her guts into a thousand, tiny knots. "Eternal thunder."

"It's fitting, General."

Venetia cringes; not at Stoyve's words, nor at the underlying sincerity of her compliment, but at what they've shaped her into. A caricature. "A force of nature. Beautiful, yet destructive. Ominous, and certain. It's a title forged in _blood_." Venetia's already failed the Order, and now, she's about to fail her troops. She just isn't who everyone wants her to be and perhaps she deserves that. Because that's who she is: a _failure._ "A Jedi would certainly want that."

And Venetia certainly wants to slap herself for such petulance.

Stoyve looks as if she's swallowed a particularly disgusting scoop of the slop that passes for field rations these years. Palms out, Stoyve shakes her head; first as slight movements, then furiously from side to side as she opens her mouth to stammer out an apology.

But it goes unheard, silenced by the chime of a new message on the datapad Venetia clutches with a white-knuckled grip.

A beat; a second of horror and hesitation, before Venetia raises the datapad oh-so-slowly to a readable level. Secretly, she's relieved for this timely interruption, because how is she supposed to laugh off something that clearly is?

Venetia doesn't read the flashing message once, not even twice. Venetia reads it five, ten, _many_ times with eyes darting all over the screen because _why is there only a single line in the memo?_

Venetia hurls the datapad in a fit of rage, where it hits the a table with a clang before skipping to a stop on the floor. She's probably wrecked the gadget; destroyed some fragile yet critical wiring within when she succumbed - _what's new?_  she notes absently - to her rashness and exasperation. A gadget that's just like herself, she laments with a choked-back laugh, but _what_ a metaphor.

Stoyve's by her side in a heartbeat despite her bad leg, worry marring features that would've been far lovelier had the Captain chosen not to enlist. Those features fall when Venetia shakes her head, and Venetia finds herself shoving the datapad into Stoyve's hands; as if it burns her skin like the charred flesh of the needless dead.

Stoyve releases a quiet sigh. It's a delicate sound that lingers in the stagnant air, but it conveys enough for Venetia to lay a hand on Stoyve's shoulder in comfort.

"The stronghold must fall," Stoyve enunciates to Venetia, like it's a directive they haven't heard before.

"It will," Venetia tells Stoyve, like she has countless times before on this forsaken jungle moon.

Of course it'll fall. That hasn't been in doubt since the Republic launched their counteroffensive here. Whether or not they'll survive is.

Of course, they don't talk about that.

And suddenly, Stoyve's unquestioning obedience makes sense.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the fallout of Dxun's campaign; not everyone escapes unscathed.

_and I would've stayed up_  
_with you all night_  
_had I known_  
_[how to save a life](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cjVQ36NhbMk) _

* * *

"I don't understand. You stick up for her like she's worth it."

"You mean she's not?"

"She's weak! She can't stomach the brutal decisions we need to make for the greater good."

"On the contrary..."

"You say that because you're blinded by your feelings towards her."

"Maybe you don't know her as well as you think you do."

"Are even you hearing yourself? This isn't what the Revanchist would say."

"Maybe that's why you say the things you say."

===

 

The grumble of the speeder bike ceases with a turn of the ignition and Lennox leaps off it. Ebony locks spill out to settle around their shoulders when they take off their helmet, and Lennox all but flings that at the bike's seat in haste. 

Lennox strides along the rows of tents that form Echo Three without their bodyguards trailing them like akk dogs because Lennox isn't supposed to be here. At least, not this early, but Lennox is, thanks to a Code Red transmission that shook them awake the night before. A holocomm call that warranted a non-stop ride here despite negligible night-time visibility and the pouring rain that's dwindled to a calming pitter-patter on their robes.

Today marks the eighth month of the Republic's... stay, on this forsaken jungle planet, yet the stench still unnerves Lennox. The dampness of flora commingle with the stench of death and bodies and stale blood that clings to the very air that Lennox breathes; the very air Echo Three's been breathing since the 5th Republic Corps traded their fellow (dead) comrades for the territory they stood on.

(Not just 'things'. Not anymore. That's the first thing that tips Lennox off.)

Most of the tents they walk past are empty, and so is the camp proper, bereft of the buzz of conversation and vibrancy of an army made antsy by the lack of action. It's because the tents number more than the living Lennox observes; these soldiers dragging their feet as they make their way to destinations unknown. Tellingly, they see little distinction in behaviour between the rank-n-file; officers, specialists, ordinary troopers, all of them missing the spark of a force buoyed by confidence.

(It's subdued. Sombre. That's the second thing that tips Lennox off.)

No one spares Lennox a glance, not even the stone-faced soldiers who cling to the tents like wallflowers. A simple Force nudge and their furtive looks glaze over as Lennox passes, even if Lennox's helmet hair and spanking clean armour is too dead a giveaway as someone  _who didn't suffer as they did_. Every face that that flits by is another stab of guilt lancing through Lennox's chest, but there's nothing but a grimace plastered between their ears.

"Sir." A soldier, baby-face framed by a few's days worth of facial scruff, salutes when Lennox approaches. "Good to see you at a moment's notice."

 _It's gender-neutral_ , Lennox reminds themselves - yet again - when they wince at how they're addressed. Most troops don't recognise the face behind the iconic mask, so Lennox supposes its the lightsaber on their hip that gives away their rank. 

"Lieutenant Nix."  _Must be_. Lennox returns the gesture and nods at the tent Nix guards. "How's the General?"

"In there since a week ago, sir. Normally this ain't my business because she's a General and I'm a lowly officer, but St-" Nix's expression hardens "- _Captain_  Stoyve made me swear to watch the General's back." Nix fidgets; swallowing twice, struggling to string ill-fitting words together. "I couldn't say no to a comrade, sir. Especially if both her legs've been blown off by a mine seconds before."

Lennox's mind goes blank.

"I'll be at the mess if you need me. Excuse me, sir." Nix snaps another salute and leaves without another word. Faded, brown splotches pockmark the back of Nix's red-n-yellow field armour, and Lennox immediately concludes  _dried blood_ ; as if Nix hasn't bothered shedding and cleaning it after the last Mandalorian stronghold fell. Armour meant to be temporary, only to last forever.

Lennox heads inside the tent; pushing aside the flap of cloth that shields Venetia from prying eyes and a galaxy that demands so much from them both.

What strikes Lennox isn't the palpable distress, bitter on their tongue, or the near-darkness of the tent that takes them a second to adjust to. It's the persistent  _snick-snack_  of a vibroshiv: blade flipped in and out, in and out by the woman sitting on the edge of a standard-issue foldout bed. 

Intoxicating in its frigidity, despair is what she projects in the Force. It reels Lennox in - body  _and_  soul - until they're close enough to pick up on the distasteful smell of dirt and alcohol rolled into one. And when Venetia drags her gaze away from the vibroshiv she never stops flicking to land on theirs, Lennox begins to doubt whether they've really stared into the depths of an abyss before.

No, immersing themselves in the maw of the Trayus Core doesn't come close. 

"You got your jungle moon," Venetia rasps her blistering accusation. "Happy now?"

She's stripped down to her Republic-issue tank top and pants tucked into combat boots, baring wiry arms wrapped in bandages from fingertip to bicep. They're spotted red in a few places, possible cuts Lennox instinctively reaches for - until Lennox decides that it's a foolish idea. 

So Lennox deflects. "Burns?" 

Venetia's eyes jerk towards Lennox, searching for something ... only to return to her vibroshiv. "And shrapnel cuts. Shortage of kolto means healing them the traditional way." She gestures at the drained bottle of alcohol on her desk with her eyes, as if that's all the energy she can spare at the moment. 

Then, her whole body tenses. "Answer my questions."

"It's easier to despise me instead of yourself, Ven. Haven't you realised that by now?" 

"I forgot. You're the  _mighty_  Revanchist, all-knowing and infinitely self-assured." Lightning-quick, Venetia tosses a necklace of savrip tooth at the bottle on her table. First the bottle tumbles, then it shatters into jagged pieces that decorate the grass-covered floor. "Who am  _I_  to question you."

Datapads and dossiers of her battalion's troops are strewn all over the desk; the kind Lennox also has within arm's reach while composing condolence letters. One in particular snags Lennox's attention: a gray MicroData post-production model that has its screen lit, displaying a datamail message. Sent by someone called 'Dana'.

Lennox rips their gaze away once the name of the sender sinks in. 

_Her apprentice._

"I didn't hasten here ahead of the advance force to gloat," Lennox answers. Venetia shuts her vibroshiv a little closer to Lennx now, more out of petulance than anything else. It's unsurprising. "What's this I hear about holing yourself in your quarters and refusing meals for days on end?"

"You heard right. Did my job, didn't I? So what's the fuss?"

Lennox blinks. 

"What's the fuss?" Lennox echoes, as if repetition can infuse sense into Venetia's illogical string of thoughts.

Rather than answer, Venetia twirls her vibroshiv on a bandaged finger before flicking the blade, in and out. In and out.

 _Snick-snack_.

Lennox snaps. " _What's_  the  _fuss?_  Your troops say you barely eat. That you've done nothing but  _flick_  your vibroshiv for hours while staring at a w-  _wall_." Two steps forward, and space doesn't divide them anymore. Lennox grabs the chair by the desk and sits in front of Venetia, with hands clasped on their lap. " _Please_  tell me you're completely aware of how that isn't healthy behaviour."

"Huh. You do care." Venetia's the spitting image of nonchalance; even more so after rolling her eyes. "Maybe because I'm an asset, but do I really want to go there?"

"Whatever gave you the impression that the reverse was true?"

Venetia flicks her vibroshiv back into its handle with a satisfied  _click_ and straightens, face alight with glee. "Let's see. We need to retake Dxun at any cost. No, it's better to torch our supplies than let the Mandies use them. Yes, we'll sacrifice a whole company to lure the Mandies into a kill zone. But what company would volunteer, right? So fabricate intel to send them there." 

"I've more where that came from," Venetia near-whispers, voice plunging several octaves. " _Three thousand, five hundred_  and  _seventy-eight_  more. I counted. Collected their ID chits too if I could salvage them, and that's not a lot. Wanna see? Footlockers under the table. Lock mechanism's spoilt, so just unlatch them. Good soldiers, and they're all  _dead_."

" _Enough._ " Lennox's breaths are stuttered, soul squirming at the deluge of revulsion crawling out from Venetia's soul. The tunic Lennox wears is now a constricting cage around their chest. "I've heard enough."

Venetia leans forward, close enough for them to bump noses - but Lennox refuses to flinch, even if the hint of blood and stale sweat makes their bile rise. 

"Tell me something," Venetia begins, deathly quiet, eerily reminiscent of a hunter stalking prey through the foliage. "Do their deaths matter, or are they just replaceable names on a roster? Did they die for something more than the inevitable body count in attrition? Because we're not dealing in hundreds, Len. We're dealing with a  _thousand._  Not just companies, but entire battalions! At what point does morality fly out of the transparisteel window and every sickening thing we do is necessary because  _it serves a purpose_?"

"Would you rather have us speak Mando'a for the rest of our lives?" 

Something in her eyes flickers -  _can't be tears, Venetia rarely cries_  - and Venetia sinks back on her bed to look past Lennox. At the tent wall. 

"That's it," Venetia admits in a whisper, eyes closed and shoulders drooping. "That's why I'm flicking my vibroshiv, wondering if not eating will numb myself to the guilt because it's inescapable, right? So the only solution's to replace it with something that hurts more."

Venetia understands war; they've been counting on that. That's why she hurts. That's why the jadedness that's borne of helplessness is setting in, because she acknowledges how some measures are undeniably necessary. 

Everything is falling into place. 

Lennox curls a hand on her shoulder. "And you blame me for it."

Her eyes snap open. " _This isn't about you._ " She claws Lennox's hand off her shoulder. "If it was, you wouldn't have received the Code Red message. And you wouldn't be here, reminding me with your  _vile_  presence that there was no way we could win honourably. As Jedi." 

Body stiff, Venetia rises to her feet, forcing Lennox to lean back, before pointing Lennox to the door with her vibroshiv. "Get. Out."

Lennox does. 

When Lennox grabs the cloth flap of the tent entrance, Lennox stills, mind seized by a sudden urge. Something's dragged behind them and they look over their shoulder. 

The chair Lennox had sat on had been moved right in front of a wall. On it sits a woman -  _Venetia_  - and she's taken to staring at a wall again. Flicking her vibroshiv in and out, in and out, and the hands that clutch it hold on like it's a lifeline. 

Lennox can't help but realise how Venetia looks so... alone. Small. Torn away from her comrades and the codes she values - what she  _leans_  on - and this is what she becomes. Stricken. Paralysed. Worn. That's how the Revanchist will silence thunder, by ripping her from the skies that carry her along.

In this regard, he pities her. In the greatest of ironies, she suffers just for existing as a social creature, reliant on her relationships with others. Just for being human.

Lennox leaves when Venetia doesn't ask them to stay. 

They don't stop walking until their legs give out, and when they do, they're in a forest clearing with the faintest idea on their location, as their knees sink into the damp mud with an ugly  _squelch_. It'll leave a stain, just like the drizzling rain that drips down their face like trails of searing ice, but at least that can be remedied with some scrubbing. 

What if they can't succeed? What if they lose not just Alek, but Venetia too, along with the rest of the Republic? What if they're just ruining everything, in standing defiant against the will of the Force? 

"What have I done?"

It's uttered silent as a breath; unheard and unnoticed except by the towering trees that surround Lennox like the damning figures of the Council the time Lennox begged them to support the movement.

It is the plea for an answer that will not come.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the answers that need to be said are said.

"I will be clear: if you hesitate with her, I will do what must be done."

"Isn't the fact that she's your friend going to convince you that's a terrible idea?"

"Would you like her to expose our plans, then? Instigate a scenario that'll have the Republic and the Order brand us as lunatics? Like we already aren't according to the Order, if you've been reading the tabloids?"

"Don't put words into my mouth, Squint. I just meant killing her is a waste."

"Not getting an army absolutely loyal to us is a waste."

"You can sideline her without taking her life. Which I'm working on. And really, you'll love how it goes, since it involves a  _lot_  of explosions. Even psychological ones."

===

Lennox finds the Lieutenant by a campfire a stone's throw from the mess tent, sitting in a circle alongside soldiers with the same emblem embossed on their armour; the plasteel still bloodied, still dented in places. 

They're chortling with the energy of troops who've not lost their entire battalion, slapping each other's backs with enviable glee that lightens Lennox's heart somewhat. Lennox can't explain it, but it does and maybe that's all that matters.

When the troops catch sight of Lennox, they shoot to their feet with a united chorus of  _sir_. Not all the troops recognise the face behind the iconic mask, so Lennox supposes its the lightsaber strapped to their belt that gives away their rank. Again.

"At ease." Lennox nods, and they relax. Lennox turns to the most senior among them, someone whose gleaming rank bars on their right breast are dulled by dirt. "Lieutenant Nix, a word?" 

Some of Nix's companions snicker: one of them playfully elbows Nix in the chest with raised brows. Another whispers conspiratorially into Nix's ear; soft enough to remain unheard - but not to a Force user with Force-enhanced senses.

"They found your stash?"

"Oh. Nix isn't in trouble if you're wondering," Lennox pipes up, and they all swivel to face the Revanchist, unembarrassed in the least. Their informality in front of a Supreme Commander is unusual. "I merely wished to clarify things." 

Still, the Force nudges Lennox at that seemingly innocuous revelation, and that fact is mentally filed away for future action. 

"Nice to know, sir." A sandy-haired soldier laughs, a Coruscanti accent underpinning their words. "Meet you inside the mess. Usual corner," the soldier tells Nix. A nod in response, and Nix's friends leave them.

When they're alone, Nix settles cross-legged at the same spot as before and pats the ground in invitation. 

Lennox hesitates. 

"Grass ain't wet, sir. Won't stain your pristine bantha-hide leggings." Nix is still upbeat, still uncharacteristically jovial that Lennox's absolutely certain that's the reason Nix is still serving, even though the Lieutenant had fought during the Mandalorian Triumph. Yes, Lennox skimmed through Nix's dossier before setting off for Echo Three, because it never hurt to be prepared.

"I wasn't-" Lennox snipes, realising belatedly that Nix meant it as a joke. Lennox shakes their head, hair swishing along, perplexed by an inexplicable spike of irritation. "Sorry. It h- it's been a long few months." 

That spike of feeling isn't theirs. It had popped out of nowhere, over a distance... and Lennox jerks their gaze towards Venetia's tent.  _There_. It's ridiculous, how Lennox feels for her more than she does for herself. Almost as if Venetia harbours a  _deathwish_  - which she doesn't. Right?

Venetia's always bottled up her emotions. That's why she's a phenomenal saberist. Duelling is her catharsis - Force forbid anyone spar with her on her bad days. Bruises aren't the least Lennox's received from those incidents. 

"Hm." Nix gives the the suddenly-contemplative Jedi a once-over; taking in the harried expression, dishevelled locks and mud-splattered leggings and all with an impassive gaze. "Not as godly as scuttlebutt said you were." Nix picks up a stray twig and chucks it into the fire, causing the flames to flare up bright against the darkness of the night. "Comforting to know, sir."

Lennox eventually plonks himself atop an upturned crate with a sigh. "Thank... you? Don't let the mask and battle skirt intimidate you. It's harmless decoration."

That elicits a laugh from Nix, before the soldier sobers up far too quickly.

"And I'm guessing you want to know about what happened here." Nix delivers those words like hammer-blows, smashing the awkward hesitancy between them to shards. "About what happened to us. To Stoyve. To  _her_." A beat. "No offense meant, sir."

"High Command has yet to receive her campaign debrief, but it's been a week since she reported her success over encrypted holocomm. I trust you'll forgive my... official curiousity?"

Nix frowns at Lennox, uncomprehending. "Sir, you met her this morning. The General didn't tell you?"

"I wouldn't be intruding on your break hour if she did, yes?"

Nix drops their gaze back to the flames, and Lennox's breath snags at the Lieutenant's absent expression.

"She wouldn't be General Stoic Stone-Face if she did," Nix mumbles; not in mirth, but melancholy. It soaks the air they breathe, and Lennox wonders if some of that belongs to them too. "This on record, sir?"

Lennox shakes a denial. "I'm not a laserbrain, Lieutenant." 

"Good. Won't want to lie, sir. Especially to a Force user." 

_Why would you want to lie?_

Nix squares both shoulders as if they're about to charge the enemy, and Lennox supposes they are. Physical bodies are the enemies in the heat of battle; memories are the enemies in the silence after. 

"One, we lost four-fifths of our strength during the campaign. Two, the Mandies were more fortified than intel previously suggested. Three, the General had to make tough decisions."

"I could say that for any oth-"

The Lieutenant interrupts Lennox with a raised hand and Lennox knows they  _shouldn't have_ , should've kept their mouth shut. 

"A  _minefield,_  sir. During the final push. We had to cross it somehow. Forget about sappers and deactivation; do that, and the Mandies would've slaughtered our decoy force at the main gate." Another pause, and another twig disintegrates in the ever-licking flames. "You wouldn't know what she felt, sir. You weren't there. First time I saw her hesitate. First time I saw her ready to dismember a Mandalorian with her bare arms." 

 _Wrong_. Lennox knows what Venetia felt. Lennox has been there. It isn't the first time she's hesitated, and it isn't the first time Lennox has seen her ready to dice a Mandalorian into tiny, tiny bits.

Chills skitter all over Lennox's skin, the warmth of the fire biting that instant. Lennox knows. Lennox  _absolutely_  knows the caress of the dark that promises much and demands far more. And while Nix drones on in hushed tones, Lennox drowns in it, drowns in the weight of past decisions and their terrible consequences. All for  _victory._

Months on, Lennox mourns the parts of them that haven't stayed the same ever since they succumbed - but never again. Not since they've clarified what it means to be Sith and Jedi.

"There's more, but that last charge was the worst. To see so many die in little over an hour, on her command?" Nix shudders. "That she didn't shut down makes me respect her more, not like I don't already. If that ain't clear enough, I'll be needing a few shots of drink before I continue."

It's a while before Lennox replies with a, "No. No. It makes perfect sense." Lennox pours serenity into the Force, falling short of patting the Lieutenant on their shoulder, hoping that the former is reassurance enough. They've imposed enough, asked enough from one soldier, and perhaps even too much from everyone around them.

Lennox dusts their leggings as they stand, finding that indeed, the cloth is as spotless and dry as Nix promised. 

"Sir, last thing." What Nix says doesn't hold Lennox's undivided attention; it's the halting nature of those words, as if Nix's revealing a filthy secret. "After we crossed the minefield, I felt incensed. Like I already was after seeing the Mandies butcher my platoon, but it'd been different. Like it wasn't me. I felt ready to stomp every single buckethead I saw under my boot. And I did. Maybe that's what kept the last of us going, why we could secure the stronghold even with a decimated company." 

That.

That.

 _That_.

"The battle frenzy, sir. It wasn't normal. And I still can't understand it."

Lennox is immensely grateful that they're already standing and Nix's taken to gazing into the depths of the fire again; has always been since recalling the final assault. The Lieutenant's better off missing the wretchedness written into Lennox's features, or watch the tremor in knees stubbornly trying to make Lennox crumple to their feet. 

Lennox never meant any of this. Especially not to her. 

"Thank you," Lennox swallows, wondering how those words are said at all. "Thank you for telling me that. You'll probably never grasp how critical that knowledge is."

Nix bristles at the initial condescension before grunting in acknowledgement, a monosyllabic end to their conversation - but it  _cannot_  end here. It can't. Not when deep breaths and pacing the length of this unnoticed nook can't anchor Lennox to the now, every breath blowing them further from the shoreline of self-control.

Lennox stutters their next words; like blaster shots in the dark. "About the act you were in trouble for. What was it?"

"It's nothing, sir. Doesn't matter now, since Dxun's 'Pub territory again."

"I'll personally rescind every strike in your records. You have my word." 

"Sir, how'd you- you can do that?" 

"No." Lennox smiles, exposing crooked but decently-white teeth. Not as threatening as the villains in the holovids, but their towering stature compensates for it. "But I can expediate the pardon request to the right people in the Disciplinary Board, if that's what your platoonmate was whispering to you about."

It usually isn't wise, cutting deals with the frontline troops. But the only and incomplete strike in Nix's personnel record is a petty offence: an unauthorised movement of materials. Likely booze or stims, because spice is an instant court-martial. With a face like that, Lennox knows it can't be any of the above - and the Force nudge of before confirmed it.

This isn't Lennox being magnanimous. This is the Republic's Supreme Commander being ruthless, because it's an offer proposed that Lennox can't fulfill while Nix has no reason to decline, because that strike witholds a pay raise that their impoverished family of five might be sorely needing.

It takes less than a breath for the Lieutenant to agree. "I, ah.  _Appropriated_  medpacs. Lotta squads lacked medical supplies so I did some redistribution amongst the troops. Didn't expect to find requisitions hoarding them." Nix stills, expression one of rumination. Then, hope peeks through. "Know anything about it, sir? Since you're the Supreme Commander, maybe you could change that."

"Sounds like classic military bureaucracy." Lennox holds Nix's gaze, black eyes meeting forest green ones, blinking away when the unwanted prickling intensifies to grazes from the tip of a lightsaber. "Doesn't make it acceptable, nonetheless. I'll do what I can to move the supplies to where they're needed."

Lennox remembers a simpler time when truth and lies were an established binary instead of a negotiated presentation of facts. When morality wasn't relative, let alone a spectrum. But those Enclave days are long gone.

Lennox settles back on the grass as Nix heads into the mess tent; the compromise resolving itself far too easily than Lennox had expected. They've made peace with what needs to be done, but that fallout has this maddening penchant of souring their mood. And if Lennox can't verbalise their thoughts, their rotten mood might just make them combust.

 _I lied, Lieutenant. I can't do anything. We're running out of supplies, and_  I  _issued the restriction order._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pub = slang for Republic.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the reconciliation doesn't go as planned.

_In the dirt and the dust and the days that felt like weeks_   
_I found the person_   
_that I'm meant_   
_[to be](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sOsOnY5jd7o) _

* * *

"You're certain you don't need me there? The entire Mandalorian fleet will be after you." 

"I'll be fine. I have Venetia to watch my back - who could ask for a better rearguard?"

"The person who proclaimed how she wouldn't use the Shadow Generator? I feel  _very_  secure."

"You don't mean that. I saw you reading the mission reports from Dxun in the mess."

"Fine, I don't. I guessed wrong. She actually did it. Sacrificed many for an uncertain outcome. She couldn't know for sure if the stronghold had enough troops for a counter... and they didn't. Her troops died for nothing."

"Thank you for your vote of confidence. However late it is."

"If you die and she doesn't, I'll throttle her with my bare hands."

"Love you too, Squint."

===

Attachment is weakness. 

The fear of loss heightens the allure of the dark side; the facet of the Force that's a bottomless wellspring of energy, powerful enough to sever the mortal constraints of life and death. 

Lennox knows this. An understanding gained not thanks to the Masters at the Enclave, but from the life after, unhindered by the rigidity of the Code they taught. 

But is attachment a weakness if one doesn't fear the inevitable loss? Lennox yearns for the latter with every fiber of their being.

 _Master Kae would know_ , Lennox concludes, feet treading a path taken earlier this morning. In fact, that woman might know how exactly to fix this mess they've landed himself in - too bad she's at the frontlines of another corner in the galaxy. Lennox respects her enough, they do. But as a mentor, a master or a mother figure? That's where things get complicated. 

Where Lennox felt distress emanating from Venetia's tent prior, it's now replaced by a fragile calm as delicate as a spider's web. Still, the distress lingers, a single thread interwoven into the greater fabric, but it's what it is. A  _single_  thread.

That's enough for the tension to seep out of Lennox's bones as a puff of air, white in the crisp coolness of the night.

Lennox lifts the tent flap hesitantly; afraid to barge in, afraid to startle the person within. Perhaps even afraid of providing enough reason for Venetia to chase them out once again. 

But only the steady tapping of fingers on a screen greets Lennox. Venetia's at her desk, hunched - at this rate she'll be a hunchback by forty - over a datapad and surrounded by more arranged in stacks, casting shadows that stretch past her like ghosts. The only light in the tent emanates from a newly-lit glowlamp, dangling from a metal fixture that props up the tent's ceiling. 

Since when had Venetia preferred working in anything darker than blinding brightness?

"Don't you. Hear that?" Her words float over like an unspoken invitation.  _Come in_. "They whisper like echoes. They always are. It's taking more out of me to resist."

"I do," Lennox replies, unsurprised. Nix had said as much. "Think what you will of me, but I do."

"I lost," Venetia blurts, shoving her datapad away. Lennox sighs at the way her body curls inwards, curls towards herself in a defensive gesture. Defeat. "I gave in. My 'take prisoners' policy? Not a thought. Didn't care if they were actual Neo-Crusaders or their slave soldiers." A beat. "And I  _enjoyed_  it."

_They're all dead._

"That's why the camp is quiet. Why the tents are missing their soldiers." The stab to Lennox's heart bleeds as a whisper; a realisation more for Lennox than her. Lennox's next words are far louder. "Your command. Did you say it? Did you make it official?

Venetia shakes her insistent denial. "I merely acted, and they just... followed suit. Unquestioningly. Even if what I did was no better than a war crime. Still can't comprehend why." Like the turn of the wind, from rain to thunder, her eyes snap open as she turns to Lennox. "Come on," she challenges, wild-eyed and frazzled. "Call me a hypocrite. Call me a self-righteous nerfhead because  _that's what I am._ "

"No." 

The chair squeaks against the grass as Venetia shoots to her feet. "I deserve it."

"You don't, and you're not." Lennox is fighting a losing battle, the way Venetia's words mask a planet's worth of self-loathing. And Lennox hates how they're helpless, so  _powerless_  against personal demons that can't be scythed down with a lightsaber. "The Mandalorians wouldn't have surrendered anyway."

" _You don't understand._  The intent is important. That's how we know we aren't like  _them_."

"They're not savages, Ven. They're fighting for a cause they believe in."

Lennox hears a sniffle, the catch in breath that isn't theirs - and only now does Lennox notice the faintest glimmer of unshed tears in Venetia's eyes. 

_Just like us._

Venetia is unravelling, just as Lennox needs her to be. Lennox's supposed to be elated, revelling in the distress that pours from Venetia's soul through the Force, but they aren't. They can't. Not when their vision's blurred by the wetness that stings more than the kiss of a laser bolt. 

Does that make her their weakness? Alek certainly thought so.

Lennox steps up to her desk, words lodged in their throat like splinters in flesh. Then, their gaze falls on a canteen cup on Venetia's left, half-filled with water, and it hurt less to speak, to spit out these word-splinters however slowly they surface.

At least she's hydrating herself now. "The way I see it, you've grieved enough. You've tormented yourself enough for your actions."

It's like screaming into the void, Lennox thinks, saying things that mean nothing especially when Venetia's scrabbling for something only she herself can give... but Lennox says them anyway. 

"So if you're searching for forgiveness, I'll hand it to you. I forgive you." 

Lennox feels as if that void will swallow them whole, unsatisfied by words and thoughts alone and even the sadness which rips them in two as they wait for a reaction from Venetia's stiff limbs too petrified to move. 

Seconds pass; maybe even minutes, maybe even hours, and still Venetia keeps her tumultuous feelings locked behind trembling lips. 

Lennox moves to stand by the battered plasteel cylinder beside Venetia's cot, hoping that distance might ease the pressure. Nothing much lies on its surface, just both her sabers, their finish gleaming and pristine. A necklace of savrip tooth on cord ties them together, and that's the extent of Venetia's personal belongings.

Her vibroshiv's nowhere to be seen - until Lennox does, and it sticks out of a canvas 'wall' like it's been flung there in frustration.

"I'm reassigning you to Manaan for a few weeks," Lennox begins, gaze lingering on Venetia's personal effects. Her entire life is the Order; how easy it'll be to destroy her,  _utterly_ , by stripping her of what it means to be Jedi. "Partly because of the scenery, mainly because the Fifth Fleet is regrouping there. Also, while I know you love immersing yourself on Dantooine's lush plains to unwind, I'm convinced ground control will open fire the instant you exit hyperspace. So that place is a no-go."

Maybe it's better that Venetia doesn't speak. A loaded silence is preferable to a heated argument anytime.

Lennox thinks of leaving, only to remember the canister of liquid strapped to their belt; the other reason why they're back at her tent tonight. Lennox unhooks it. 

"I'd like that." 

Speechless, Lennox spins on their heels to face Venetia. Feelings well up under their skin, an indescribable plethora of elation, surprise, relief.

"Hot chocolate?" Lennox stammers while brandishing the canister, immediately feeling the urge to kick themselves. Of course she isn't referring to the drink they brought,  _fool._

"Behold, the master orator." Somehow, Venetia's beside Lennox and already plucking the canister from their grasp. "That too. Thank you." 

Venetia radiates only gratitude through her soft smile. It's as if the both of them haven't just traded truths that've shattered the conviction of lesser beings, of those who still cling to outdated tenets of idealism and immutable morality.

Small victories, Lennox reminds themselves. Even if Venetia's spiralling into self-destruction, she isn't now and that's what matters. Lennox just needs her apathetic enough to despise the senselessness of war; enough for her to leave the fight. 

And she already is. "No," Lennox insists. "Thank  _you_."

It must've been something they said, or  _how_  they said it, because Venetia stills, canister held mid-raise. "Wait. You're not going on leave too?"

"Ah, nah. I'm certain the war effort will crumble without its lynchpin." Lennox's usual affability floods back and they're already gesturing along to their words like they always have - but it's too rehearsed, too rushed to  _not_  be a defensive reflex. "I mean, I  _am_  the Supreme Commander now, right? Or at least that's how Command addresses me. Come to think of it, Chancellor Cressa was the one who dumped that title on me, right?"

Venetia looks at Lennox from hair to boots before pursing her already thin lips, thoroughly unsatisfied with what she sees. "Len, you look like what the trash compactor spat out. Do you have time for yourself?"

"Just what do you think I do on those boring hyperspace flights? Talk shop with Command?" Lennox giggles, a sound painful to their ears. But what hurts more is the irony of the jarring reversal of roles. "Besides that, that's when I finally have time to meditate."

"Knowing you?" Venetia touches Lennox's arm. Her voice is soft.

Warmth blooms in Lennox's belly. In spite of her own horrors, she remembers that Lennox has theirs, too.

But Lennox immediately waves away her concern. "I'm alright. Let me worry about my own issues and you, yours. I'd say it's already more than enough trouble for you. Them bucketheads are still trashing the galaxy, so I need you at your best."

Venetia's expression darkens, but it's for a second too fast Lennox wonders if it's a trick of the light. 

"At my best," Venetia echoes a bit too hollowly. Then, she withdraws her hand and tips her canister in Lennox's direction. "To better times."

"To better times."

Lennox tries to ignore how Venetia's eyes are dull again, their bark-brown hues lacking their usual warmth.

At least they're brown and not sulfuric yellow.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the lie that started it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbh, i've always wanted to write this scene after writing out anathema (part 1 of the series), and as usual, a whole storyline had to spawn as well so here I am.
> 
> (this keeps happening I swear I don't know why)

_I'm choking on my words_  
_like I got a noose around my neck_  
_I can't believe it's come to this_  
_I can't believe_  
_it's come_  
_[to this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PJm32-6j9EU)_

* * *

"Reassigning her isn't the same as eliminating her."

"It is, in a way. She can't influence our grand masterplan from there. Isn't that good enough?"

"She can still snoop around. Isn't that reason enough for you to end this once and for all?"

"She isn't going to expose us."

"So you speak for her now?"

"Well. I don't profess to know what goes on in her head, but I'd like to think I have a pretty good grasp of what does. Anyway, she wouldn't."

"And why not?"

"She has this penchant for self-blame. Given what happened on Dxun..."

" _She will be distracted._  Well done. I thought you've lost your touch."

"You really should stop doubting me."

===

Lennox hasn't been listening as well as they should. 

They're all here, gathered around this round table in the  _Tenessere_ 's war room; himself, Alek, whoever's left in Command... and that numbers fifteen, at most. A Commodore is briefing them on their contingencies, sketching out attack patterns and naval manoeuvres on the blue-green holographic board with a webbed hand and Lennox has long lost track of the chaotic path that hand has traced amidst blinking neon symbols of the display. 

"Battlegroup Alpha will draw fire away from Zeta here, and here. The  _Aegis_  will take point."

So Lennox continues blinking. Those lights are blinding, but so is the sour-faced woman on the other side of the display. The woman wearing a necklace with a savrip tooth pendent; the cord peeking out from her shirt's collar.

 _Honestly._  What Supreme Commander zones out during what could possibly be the single most important campaign briefing of this entire war? If not for briefing transcripts, they would be done for.

Lennox can't help it; Venetia's fuming (what a surprise) and Lennox doesn't require five additional minutes of struggling with their feelings to realise that they  _can't_  block her out, even by using the Force. They've learnt that the hard way, during their Enclave days.

They startle when someone pokes their side. It's Alek, glaring at them with the exasperation of a vindicated friend.  _Pay attention._

Lennox nods, though they wonder if the bald man's figured them out correctly this time. Alek's probably blaming their fatigue on their constant fretting over a certain lady - but no. This time, Lennox wonders if Intelligence's reports on Mandalorian fleet numbers aren't underreported like last time because they  _all_  knew how fantastic tussling over asteroids in Jaga's Cluster was. 

The Republic lost the entire Eighth Fleet because of that oversight. 

"I'll be co-commanding from the  _Aegis_  -" Lennox's head snaps up at the sound of Venetia's voice "-and the Lieutenant will be with me on the bridge. Force willing, we won't have to use the Generator."

She meets the gazes of everyone at the war table before declaring, "I don't plan to." 

Those two words are said so earnestly, sending a fresh wave of discomfort inside Lennox because that won't come to pass at Malachor. Their plans  _always_  succeed, and this time, it's vital that it does.

(That they can go through with it anyway still amazes them.)

Noises of assent rumble around the table, but Lennox doesn't join in. Alek too, Lennox discovers with a surreptitious glance, but it's hardly shocking. 

And somehow, where Lennox shifts their gaze next happens to be at Venetia's face. She stares right back with that chillingly blank expression of hers, and Lennox swears that she's reading the thoughts lurking behind their plastered-on smile. 

"Thoughts,  _Supreme Commander_?" Venetia smirks. "We'd like to hear them."

"None at all," Lennox shoots back equally quickly. "And if that's all to be discussed, I'll close this briefing." Hearing no objections, Lennox nods to the door. "Dismissed." 

Lennox doesn't let it show, but Venetia's insinuation stung. In fact, her existence in itself is a drain on their emotional stability these years, so at least Alek's correct on that. What more with her recent bent towards viciousness and fault-finding; things whose explanation lay in that inevitable truth Lennox  _refuses_  to contemplate.

So Lennox wears an artificial grin while nodding to the fleet commanders filing out of the room. Their expressions vary from deadbeat to preoccupied, and Lennox doesn't blame them. It's late, and the notion of possible and imminent death is hardly glee-inducing. 

Lennox snorts at the joke, only to sense Alek's eyes on them from across the room. The frown remains on their friend's face, a look that Lennox reciprocates with a grin until Alek exits the room in a huff. 

A voice sounds out from behind Lennox. "What's so funny?" 

Lennox groans. But not out of surprise.

"Nothing, Ven," Lennox deflects as the woman walks into view, and that's basically the extent of conversation Lennox can tolerate with her. "Sometimes you can't help but giggle at things. Just those idiosyncrasies that keep us firmly in the sane zone, see. I have my awkward laughter, you have your  _distracting_  fidgeting."

When Venetia doesn't respond, Lennox gestures at her hands, fingers busy fiddling with the skin around her nails. It doesn't escape them that her skin's slightly reddish than usual... almost as if Venetia's been rubbing them raw.

"You and your  _big_  words," Venetia snorts, but she's avoiding their gaze with a small smile. Her hands are now stuffed in her pants pockets. "'Nervous tic' would've explained it simply."

"Flamboyance is my middle name. I thought you knew that." 

Obviously, they're stalling. Venetia isn't hanging around here for chit-chat; that's uncharacteristic of her, especially at this critical juncture of the war. Lennox is the one who bugs her for face-to-face R&R. 

But Venetia hasn't shut them down, strangely enough. That leaves only one reason for her to be here - which she's revealed during the briefing. And just this once, Lennox wants to be wrong. 

"This peace and quiet is nice, but I didn't stay to talk. I've got the rest of my life to do that," Venetia begins. Already, Lennox feels their heart sink. Because Venetia  _won't_  have that luxury. "I'm here about the Generator. And I didn't want to bring it up during the briefing."

 _I didn't want to bring up my misgivings about its operational efficiency during the briefing,_  Lennox translates, because even Venetia - the straight-talking, no-nonsense General by reputation - has fallen into the trade of guarded words and implicit declarations. 

Lennox has to remind himself that they're still young; a few months shy of twenty-six, and not some crusty fossil who's already been soured by the burden of existence. "Why thank you, Ven, for your kind consideration." 

Somewhere, Lennox feels the rumbling in the walls die down, the barest hitch in the ship's breath as the ship-wide refrigeration units restart their cooling cycles. A chilly draft blows in from the vents above them, and Venetia pulls up the zipper of the flight jacket she wears - a gift from Krayt Squadron, Lennox recalls without difficulty. Venetia had been moved to tears when the pilots presented that to her during one of their post-battle parties, and funnily enough, Lennox was there at her behest.

Then it clicks - Venetia must've just returned from a blue milk run with the squadron before the briefing. Time spent in a starfighter's cockpit never fails to make her giddy with elation, and that's the only mood when she'll willingly approach Lennox for whatever reason.

"It'll work, right. Work as it's supposed to." Her gaze is firmly fixed on a point past Lennox's shoulder; probably at the only cluster of decorative banners in a room whose walls are covered with flashing display panels. Staring at anywhere but the person with all the answers. 

Venetia's hiding something, but what?

"Like, what's the likelihood that the Generator  _won't_  just pull in the Mandies, but our fleets too?" Venetia continues, shifting her weight from feet to feet. 

Her hesitance stumps Lennox. All the bravado from the briefing is gone; that Venetia put up that impression anyway leaves a lump in Lennox's throat, because Venetia's doing it again. She's caring too much again, reassuring others but stressing herself in the process, and that path has only ever led to ruin. That, Lennox knows too  _karking_  well.

Venetia doesn't shirk from their touch when Lennox grabs her by the wrist to lead her towards the row of command consoles. Once she's settled comfortably on a stool - they can't do anything for her bouncing knees - Lennox ambles to the caf dispenser by the door to pour some drinks.

The second cup is filled to slightly below the rim when Venetia speaks. "Don't you wonder about the good soldiers who could've been spared?"

"Our Neo-Crusader friends call me the commander of death, Ven.  _Al'verde be kyr'am_." Lennox watches the caf foam bubble for a bit, amidst sifting through their feelings. "I think it's futile to hope for the impossible." 

But Force,  _they do._  Not a day passes when Lennox doesn't second-guess the decisions that could've,  _should've_  been made to minimise casualties - as if they haven't already - no matter that undying self-critique will tip them off the deep end eventually. 

Thing is, how does one stop second-guessing methods to which no answers exist?

Venetia sips her drink the instant Lennox hands her the cup. "You didn't answer my question. Would Malachor's grav field interfere with the Generator?"

Seeing her handle the mug like a weapon, Lennox wonders what it'll take before she hurls that at them. Her being antsy lowers whatever tolerance threshold that happens to be.

"No," Lennox says with a straight face. It's a lie.

They're so messed up, tripped up in politics and shadow intentions for some nebulous definition of the greater good, and that has Lennox laughing again. "Don't you trust Bao-Dur? He's one hell of a mechanic, engineer even. I'm surprised the white coats at the Research Division haven't snatched him up yet."

"It's not him I'm worried about." 

_It's you._

Lennox blinks, then clears their throat. "Trust me. And- well. If you don't, trust that everything will be alright."

Venetia sets her cup down on a nearby console with a sigh. "To be clear, I trust that you want  _Mand'alor_  and his minions dead. Nothing to do with  _you_. Once we're done playing soldier, we're through. I-" Venetia sucks in a breath "-can't do this anymore." 

Lennox's first reaction is to smile; unforced and wide. This is their ultimate objective, the result of sleepless nights and splitting headaches  _and they've achieved it_. Lennox can keep an eye on Alek, just not her - that's why they need her gone. And when Venetia says she's had enough, it means she desires nothing but the peace and solitude of the Enclave and  _kark_  everything else.

Their second reaction is far more acceptable, so that's what Lennox lets slip through their barriers. Pragmatism batters their giddy glee into sobriety, because this move cannot backfire. Venetia must sense reluctant disappointment instead. The fate of the galaxy hangs in the balance. 

"I understand." It's not a lie.

Maybe that's why relief crosses Venetia's features, and for a fleeting moment, she looks more her age of twenty-six. Carefree, and certainly not bearing the back-breaking weight of lives upon her shoulders. 

She nods. "I know. I just needed to hear you say that." 

Those are the words that she leaves Lennox with. Even as the sliding door shuts after her, Lennox hasn't budged one bit. Someone's replaced their legs with durasteel and lungs with blocks of ice because there's a tightness in their chest that makes them want to retch. 

Despite everything, Venetia still has faith in them. And Lennox is repaying that with a vibroshiv to the gut. 

 _For her own good,_  Lennox reminds themselves, but that sounds so kriffing hollow in their head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, that was a the 100 reference.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the beginning of the end.

_tearing me apart with_  
_words you wouldn't say_  
_and suddenly tomorrow's_  
_a moment_  
_[washed away](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=86T8kxR3rI4)_

* * *

"Do you wonder if we're in above our heads? What if we're being misled? What if we've wandered too far into the dark to know otherwise?"

"Len, it's 4AM. Why are you awake?"

"Why did you answer my holocomm call, then?" 

"Because it's you."

"I'm terrified, Squint. I might perish tomorrow and this might be the last exchange we have. Ever."

"You took us this far. You'll take us even further."

"...I don't deserve your unwavering belief in me."

===

_Thirty-two hours._

Much has happened these few days; logistical nightmares, a plunge in troop misconduct, and thousands other shenanigans typical of a fleet gearing up for a major battle. 

As Supreme Commander, Lennox is spared such technicalities - but that doesn't prevent them from immersing themselves in those details. Not out of personal concern, of course. These things are critical to determining the fleet's combat readiness... or so they tell themselves.

Though they're not supposed to by virtue of their rank, there are plenty of technicalities to worry about. That's solid enough of an excuse to forget personal errands, like their current task - but had they forgotten this, Lennox would've had no qualms venting themselves out of the nearest airlock.

That's why there's a skip in their step as Lennox navigates the labyrinthine corridors of the  _Tenessere_ , grasping a stack of papers so tightly as if easing their grip a fraction will make them vanish into thin air. 

Thankfully, Lennox passes only a handful of personnel thus far, most of them the customary complement of patrolling sentries. It isn't so much the thought of socialising as knowing that the troops are getting the rest they need, given zero hour in thirty-two hours. Lennox can't disentangle their knotted mess of emotions, but it's comforting, knowing that the troops are taking a well-deserved breather before the battle to end all battles.

(Oh no. Lennox isn't projecting their emotions on them. Not at all.)

Three turns and five doors later, Lennox skids to a stop, overcome by a wave of deja vu. They've stopped at a door whose only defining feature is the trio of numbers inscribed above the activation panel, numbers that don't resonate within them. To knock on a door that isn't hers would be a faux pas of planet-shaking proportions - no, Lennox isn't exaggerating - but what convinces Lennox that it's the right one is the flurry of emotions emanating from the room.

It's a paradoxical mix of sadness and joy, and no one does that better than her. Her, the one who thrives in the sensations of the moment, the one who's always felt too much for an adherent of the Force who's supposed to transcend such human impulses. To be  _dispassionate_. Try as the Order might, they can't force her into what she isn't.

Lennox moves to activate the door panel, but the door slides open before they can. Or had they activated it without knowing?

"Ven, I-" Lennox stops as they step into near-darkness, as perplexed as before.

Even with the glowlamp in the corner, Lennox barely discerns the layout of her quarters at first glance; at second, they're surprised to see her snoozing on her bunk. 

 _So who opened the door?_  Lennox thinks, but the thought slips away at the sight of her.

Facing the window, Venetia's turned away from Lennox, buried under a threadbare blanket they're convinced is useless against the ship's frigid night-cycle temperatures. She's dead to the world, but (thankfully) not to the Force. 

At least, not yet.

In spite of themselves, Lennox smiles. Venetia isn't twisting nor turning in her sleep, and that can only be a good sign. Proper sleep eludes Lennox even on the best of days, and no doubt it's the same for her.

Lennox tucks the papers in hand on her desk, where it sticks out from under her duffel bag that acts as a paperweight. Smoothing out the crinkled sheet one final time, Lennox lets their fingers linger on its edges, as if that act can press parts of themselves into the flimsi. 

They fish out a holodisc from their pocket, rubbing a thumb over the L written on it in black ink, before sliding it under the flimsi.

Then, Lennox steps back. And that's it. That's the sole reason Lennox rushed here, despite having no less than five different commanders waiting on them for a response on a never-ending stream of military technicalities.

For someone asleep, Venetia's awfully quiet; her breaths are imperceptible in the stretched silence of her quarters, but maybe it's better this way. If this is the last time Lennox sees her, they'd rather have this moment; not awkward conversations, not angry words flung between them. Just the hollowness of words unsaid, but not emotions unfelt. Seeing her alive is all Lennox can ask for, all they think they deserve for what they've done. But if it keeps her safe, they'll gladly and willingly be crushed in the rubble of their sins. 

She's always been their first priority.  _Always._

With a hand hovering over the door panel and back against the door, Lennox commits this image of Venetia to memory till their eyelids prick with hurt. Soon, Venetia will likely forget them; drown them under waves of hurt and hate in the ocean of her memories - but Lennox won't. 

She is their lighthouse; of morals, of who they used to be. Of who they could've been. To forget her is to remain adrift, trapped in the perpetual search for an illuminated path home, and that's the last thing Lennox needs in a mission that'll irrevocably reshape them. 

"I'm sorry," Lennox whispers to the unhearing, the unbothered. The unresponsive. 

It's like shouting in a forest - if no one hears, is it even sound? Is it even real?

A tear slides down their cheek. Lennox wipes it away with their shoulder, convinced that they're dreaming again, that they'll jolt out of bed soon enough in a cold sweat. 

But they don't. 

At that, they leave. 

(and misses the sigh that comes after)

"I'm sorry."

She can't sense Lennox's thoughts. She daren't even  _try_ , because her clumsy attempt will tip Lennox off to her state of wakefulness -  _ever since Lennox tiptoed in_  - and then Lennox will say something and she'll take offense and they'll rip into each other again because that's what they've been forged into; beskads, sharpened by mistrust and irreconcilable ideologies, yet they hurl themselves into each other again and again and again (time after time) hoping that someone'll cave in and by Force, do they bleed.

They deserve so much better than this, and she's  _exhausted_.

A sniffle. 

She tenses. It takes every ounce of self-control to remain motionless when that sound has her reaching out for Lennox in instinct, even when their interactions these days are nothing but heated arguments.

Even then. 

She doesn't show it - let alone  _say_  it - but there's so much to make up for between them. Her only hope is that she can, after the war and planetary sectors away from her deeds. 

They're family, and family stick together no matter what.

When the door  _whooshes_  for the second and final time, Venetia thinks she's been granted a momentary respite - only for an unseen weight to crush her slowly into the mattress.

She sighs like she can puff out the pressure squeezing her torso, but it's useless. Being on her feet helps, though, so that's why she's pacing the length of her cramped quarters in the dark - with her emotional shields up, of course, as if that's a perfectly normal thing to do on ship full of allies. 

No matter how or where her feet take her, the discharge papers on her desk are a damning sight in her peripheral view. She can picture it in her mind; bird-shaped logo of the Republic in the header, blockish black lettering filling up the space beneath, before three signatures conclude the document. 

But there's only one word she sees, and it's not even printed on the flimsi.

_Coward._

"Kark!" Venetia blurts, and a gust of wind blasts through the cramped space. 

Thankfully, there's nothing to kick up into the air. No mess of papers nor other loose items to be strewn all over like the debris of her former battlegrounds th- 

She crosses the distance between her and the transparisteel window (slit, more like) beside her desk in five quick strides, shaking her head throughout. Another outburst, another slip-up despite her tightly-reined emotions. 

_The Dark Side whispered, she answered._

She's fortunate; only the officer's quarters have such a novel view. 

At least now, sitting crossed-legged in front of the window, the only thing she can see are stars - and that's the antidote she needs for the poisonous thoughts that slither at the back of her mind. It's not long before she begins to shiver; between the ridiculous ship-wide temperature and her clad in standard-issue shorts and a tank top, it was simply a matter of minutes. 

She retrieves the blanket on her bed. It's seen better days, but when she wraps it around herself, it isn't as freezing anymore.

"I should've stayed," she tells the stars that shine outside the window. "Should've been stronger than this because they need me. Lennox, Alek, Sylva. The troops. All of them. If- no.  _When_  we win at Malachor, there's sweep-up to do in the Outer Rim." 

The stars have always mesmerised her, tugging her into the uncomplicated boundlessness of space that stretches into forever. Today, it isn't any different - that's exactly what soothes the gnawing in her belly like a heating balm. And today, it isn't any different, because why would the stars be answering her unless she's well and truly on the path to insanity? 

_What if?_

Weeks before Venetia left to fight, Atris had touched on the Lords of the Sith during one of her lessons. The historian spoke of them as mindless beasts; held captive to their emotions and chained to their desires. Unhinged, and egotistical. In short, the vilest sleemos to wander the galaxy. 

Venetia isn't any of that. Surely she'll know if she's fallen, right? Brown irises stare back at her from the transparisteel, and her complexion isn't cracked in places like ancient oil paintings hanging in the Order's vaults on Ossus. She doesn't even  _look_  Sith.

But she's had nagging suspicions ever since Dxun. They won't have surfaced if they're baseless, right?

So she sits in silence, knee to knee with her doubts, dredging them all up like it's as routine as cleaning her sabers. Flips through them like pages in a holonovel (or mission logs, these years), each of which telling the sordid story of a vac-head in lurid detail. The shame, the  _disgust_  that spills from the pages; it's like tightening screws into her flesh, but at least they're familiar. They're real. 

With forehead pressed to the glass, she drifts asleep to the sight of greenery on Malachor's surface, dreaming of grass and rolling meadows and dew on her fingertips. Of  _home_.

It's a pleasant dream, until her world is swallowed by flames and she wakes screaming with the taste of ash in her throat.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the end.

_we can't escape_   
_the voices in our heads that break us down_   
_but heavy lies the crown_   
_([don't forget](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P7M5zMFUNlA)_   
_[about me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P7M5zMFUNlA))_

* * *

 

> "You're hiding something from me. The looks you share with Alek, the murmurs... you shielding your thoughts. I've noticed."
> 
> "Must be your hyperactive imagination. Alek's been more willing to hear my puns now, you know."
> 
> "We've known each other since we were younglings and you have the  _gall_  to gaslight me."
> 
> "I-"
> 
> "You're better than that. Or did everything we share mean nothing?"
> 
> "Listen. The less you know, the better. Please trust me on this."
> 
> "Trust? You've done so much that the old Lennox wouldn't have done and you still want me to  _trust_  you?"
> 
> "You're backup, okay? I need you as backup and the less you know the better the galaxy will be. The  _safer_  you'll be."
> 
> "Can you stop protecting me? I can t-"
> 
> "Take care of yourself. And a whole battalion too while you're at it, I know. Just let me have this one thing, okay?"
> 
> " _Fine_."

* * *

_"You know, it's been years since that promise crossed my mind. Record messages for each other. It was supposed to be a joke. A harmless, meaningless joke. Like, why would we need to compose letters to each other when we lived in the same place? I could walk to your quarters, catch you at the mess, or bother you during training for a chat. But I was young. We were young. Naive, and innocent. When the war happened, we... grew up. Dying became a certainty, and every time we saw each other could be our last. So this is how it turns out - a prank memo becomes a possible farewell note."_

The door slides open behind her. "Master Jedi?"

Venetia pauses the holodisc playback. "It's time?"

"It's time," Sylva concurs, and the Mon Cal is gone in moments. 

A press of a button, and the playback resumes.

_"Whatever happens, I need you to stay strong. I need you to believe that I'm still the same person you grew up with, even if it appears otherwise. I need you to carry on, regardless of whether I'm around. You're far stronger than you think, and you don't grant yourself enough credit. Whatever I did and whatever I will do, I have my reasons, and you know me - they're hardly egotistical in nature. So if this is goodbye, remember me. Remember everything we used to be."_

The hologram shuts off with a click, and the disc is ejected from the player. 

Venetia retrieves the holodisc and holds it out under the light. Part of her wants to toss this into the nearest trash compactor, and that's what she does, finding herself standing inches from the receptacle embedded in a nearby wall.

Well,  _almost._

Because that's not where the holodisc ends up. Instead, it's tossed at the duffel bag lying on top of her bunk bed.

Venetia gives herself one last look-over in front of the mirror; checking that her lightsabers are clipped to her belt, and her hooded cloak rests immaculately on her suit of Echani light armour. A bit of fiddling with the cowl of her hood, a bit of floofing up her hair, and she  _still_  looks like what the trash compactor spat out.

Like it even matters. Venetia can't fathom why she's fussing over her appearance when she has a fleet to lead -  _possibly to certain death_  - so she heads to the refresher to wash her face, hoping that'll quell the tremors rocking her.

It works.

Satisfied, Venetia heads out of her quarters and towards the bridge of the  _Aegis_  with shoulders pulled back and footsteps sure. 

Right now, she's everything a General isn't; jaded, doubtful, hesitant - but that's not who the Republic needs. They want the professional, the leader, so that's who she'll be. 

One more battle, one last time. 

Only then will she let herself unravel.

~~fin~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "it is all that is left unsaid upon which tragedies are built"  
> \- kreia


End file.
